


Be Nice To Me

by mentallyillbitchfrom2018 (orphan_account)



Series: I’m keeping these up but jESUS christ [1]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: A lot of suicidal stuff, Anorexia, Dark Thoughts, Gen, M/M, Purple Guy is Vincent, Scott has a sister, Songfic, bare minimum mention of recovery, based off the song Be Nice To Me by the front bottoms, god please stay safe don’t read this for fucks sake, good boyfriend purple guy, i like raw vocals ok, no sleep, purple guy has actual emotions, scott is a bitch, scotts sister is a goddess of a woman, self harm mention, self hate, shes a police officer, that there is a problem for our murder boy, vincent struggles to get his emotions out, voice cracks? Mmmm, we love a borderline unstable relationship, yes I call him Vincent and I will throw hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mentallyillbitchfrom2018
Summary: a part of my constant drabbles and I really like this song so naturally I turned it into a lament about Scott's suffering because I am a dick.
Relationships: Phone Guy/Purple Guy (Five Nights at Freddy's), Purplephone - Relationship, Vincent Bishop/Phone Guy, Vincent Bishop/Scott Adams, Vincent/Phone Guy
Series: I’m keeping these up but jESUS christ [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130522
Kudos: 17





	Be Nice To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Song used: Be nice to me- the front bottoms  
> I appreciate comments cause I wanna improve and there’s always room for it right  
> Also please do be wary there’s a lot of dark topics here be safe kiddos

_ I got boulders on my shoulders _

_ Collar bones begin to crack _

_ There is very little left of me and it's never coming back _

_ There are certain things you ask of me _

_ There are certain things I lack _

_ The beginning, we were winning _

_ Now we're just making up facts _

_ What's it matter anymore? _

_ You believe the lies I tell _

_ There's no meaning to the words _

_ But we still sing these songs well _

_ If we all left it alone _

_ I'm sure it will work itself out fine _

_ We keep playing with the numbers _

_ And we are running out of time _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He started the day more tired than most of the others. If anyone had really looked, they’d probably have noticed. He’d been yawning, and when it came to briefing, he’d almost fallen asleep standing up. He was running on caffeine, and his supply was slowly dwindling down to nothing.

Scott hadn’t slept in three days.

Like all the other times, he claimed he didn’t know why. He did. Deep, deep down, he knew why. He didn’t want to say it out loud, though. He thought it sounded stupid. To be a fully grown 26 year old and still suffer from nightmares sounded childish. 

He hadn’t been asked yet, anyway. Vincent was a heavy sleeper, so he’d had all the time in the world to go in and out of their room to do whatever he wanted at 3am in the morning. As long as he was in bed when Vincent woke up, he could just pretend he’d woken up early.

Honestly, Scott did feel bad constantly lying to Vincent like that. He’d assured him he was getting better, when he really wasn’t. He just seemed it. 

Sure, he’d gotten better in some places. The whole ‘not eating’ thing had mostly stopped. He’d stopped picking up a razor at the most minor inconvenience. He hadn’t fully stopped that, however. Just gotten better at hiding it. Stricter environments create sneakier people.

He could feel it happening before it actually happened, as always. 

Scott walked to the break room, and, as he did, he could feel his steps grow heavier each time he walked, and there was a little ringing noise in his ears. Before he knew it, his knees gave out under him and he’d fallen to the floor. The cloud of black overcame him as he welcomed a desperately needed forced nap.

He woke on one of the old couches they had in the break room, Vincent standing over him. For a moment, it was nice, until he saw Vincent’s expression. He looked like what he’d imagined his mother would. Disappointment, but laced with a little bit of upset and quite possibly hurt. 

The next thing he noticed was a small breeze around his arms that wouldn’t usually be there. He moved one of his arms up to discover that he was not wearing his bandages.

“You told me you’d stopped. Those are new. Is there anything you want to tell me, Scott?” Vincent’s arms were crossed, and he spoke in a tone Scott had only heard a few times beforehand.

Scott swallowed, and looked away from Vincent and himself, to the back of the couch. 

“Take all the time in the world. You’re not leaving until I get an explanation.”

Radio silence.

“You said you were getting better.”

Something in Scott just, snapped. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not, am I? I tell you a lot of things, Vincent. It doesn’t mean that any of them are true.”

“Oh, so what? You’ve just been lying to me about getting better? Are you even actually eating? Or are you lying about that too?” He sounded hurt, but Scott really couldn’t seem to care in that moment.

“No! I’m actually eating.” Scott sat up, looking around for his bandages, but he couldn’t see them.

“Oh, wow, thanks for the reassurance. That makes everything better.” The fact that this sentence was punctuated with an eye roll didn’t sit well with Scott. 

“You know, you’re the one in the wrong here. You took my bandages off. That’s a boundary crossed. That’s not ok.” Scott still insisted on avoiding eye contact.

“Oh? Oh really? Well, neither is cutting yourself when you promised your boyfriend you’d stopped. I know that it’s hard for you to leave something like that, but you knew that I was right there if you wanted to talk to me and you  _didn’t_. ” 

“It’s hard to talk about it.”

“Yes. It is. But you’re an adult, Scott. Leaving it alone just doesn’t cut it anymore. It doesn’t just go away if you don’t think about it. You have people in your life that care about you, and I can think of one who’d be _ very _ disappointed if she found out that you’ve been lying.” Of course, of course he was finding some way to bring Cindy into it. He always did.

Scott stayed silent for a moment, considering what to say. He didn’t quite know what he could that wouldn’t dig himself a deeper hole. So, he figured, fuck it.

“Don’t bring my fucking sister into this.”

Vincent wasn’t cracking today. “I’ll do whatever I need to in order to get an explanation from you.” 

“I- I had a lot on my mind. And- I don’t know, I guess lying to you got to me. I couldn’t deal with it.” He spoke in almost a whisper, wary of anyone who could be listening in. They were at work, after all. 

“Lying? What else are you lying about, then?” It was just question after question after question today. Vincent wouldn’t let him go until he’d picked apart every angle.

“Sleeping. And eating when I say I do.”

Vincent sighed. It was short, but packed full of worry and upset, but most importantly, hurt.

“Figured. I was wrong to trust you blindly. You apologise for it again and again, but you never actually do anything about it. Knowing you have a problem and acting on it are two very different things, Scott.” Vincent placed a hand on Scott’s shoulder, as comfort, but Scott tugged it away.

“I’m- I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.” Scott whispered. His voice was missing, right in the moment when he needed it most. Typical. He could feel the break in his throat where he’d start to cry, and he didn’t want that to happen. 

“Don’t say anything. We’ll talk about it more at home.” It seemed as if Vincent didn’t even want to look at him.

Did he really resent him that much? Scott never knew what it was like to be on the other end of his situation. He didn’t think Vincent actually cared that much. But maybe he was wrong. 

Saying sorry lets it cool until the next time they argued about it, and he could leave it until they got home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ You're a killer and I'm your best friend _

_ I think it's unfair, your situation _

_ You say I'm changing, _

_ Sorry I didn't know I had to stay the same _

_ Can we talk about this later? _

_ Your voice is driving me insane _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Scott, you have to stop lying to me like this.” Vincent rushed after Scott, who was promptly trying to lock himself inside a guest bedroom. He had avoided it, but he couldn’t at home. They both lived there.

Scott said nothing. Quickening his pace a little, Vincent managed to catch up to him.He grabbed Scott by his shoulder and forced him to turn and face the other man. There was a few seconds of very uncomfortable silence, before Vincent spoke.

“You’re changing. And not in a good way. You’re going back to how you used to be, and I know you hated that-“

Scott gave a wry laugh, a condescending smile plastered on his lips. “Changing? Yeah, Vincent. That’s what people do. I wasn’t aware I couldn’t change.”

“Changing is starting a good habit, like drinking enough water or going for a run every day. Changing _ isn’t _ starving yourself and not sleeping. That’s not change, Scott, that’s self harm.” Vincent sighed, maintaining strong eye contact with Scott, whom did not want to look at him.

“You know that’s a sensitive topic.”

“Well maybe, just maybe, if you stopped, I wouldn’t need to bring it up every other week. Ever think of that?” Vincent crossed his arms.

Scott thought for a second. He couldn’t just  _stop_ , and he didn’t need Vincent lecturing him on this too when he already had Cindy on his ass every day of the week. Honestly, they both acted like they were his parents. But they weren’t. Which meant he didn’t actually have to listen to them.

“I’m- I’m tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Scott tried his best to fake a yawn, but it failed horribly.

“Tomorrow never arrives, though, does it? You’re never ‘ready’ to talk about anything. The only way I’ve ever gotten you to open up is by _ forcing _ you.” Vincent glared at him, and even though Scott was looking at the floor, he could feel Vincent’s gaze burning holes in his mind.

“Oh my  god,  can you shut the hell up already? You sound like my mother. Now, I’m going to sleep. In this room.”

Scott tore himself free of the vice-like grip of Vincent’s stare, and slammed the bedroom door in his face, careful as to lock it. He threw himself on the bed, silently lamenting and internally groaning at himself. It really wouldn’t take that much effort to open up, but no, he wanted to be complicated.

Vincent was right. There never was a tomorrow. Even with this mundane routine, he never knew what would happen, and he never planned ahead. There was a ‘today’, and there was sure as Hell a ‘yesterday’- but never a tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ I try to write you poems, but the words they don't make sense _

_ The hand tries to grip the pencil, but the fingers are too tense _

_ I try to show emotion, but my eyes won't seem to wet _

_ I'd love to tell you stories, but I can't remember how they went _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vincent had pages upon pages of writing that he’d either never finished or never given to the person they were meant for. Main reason being, they were usually fuelled by a certain emotion that could go as soon as it arrived, and that they were all in French. They’d never be able to be understood unless Vincent translated it, and he really didn’t want to do that.

A fair amount of these were, regrettably, addressed to Scott. There were  so _many_ things that he was desperate to tell him, but every time he found himself faced with the opportunity to his throat closed up and he couldn’t talk. 

That is, about what he really wanted to say.

Instead, he started getting defensive. Saying things he didn’t mean, being bitter. An eye roll here, a scoff there. Should’ve been harmless. Wasn’t. 

The one subject he found himself actually physically able to bring up with Scott was the one he hated the most. About Scott’s... habits. 

He figured it was because it was rooted in the fact that he  _did _care deeply about Scott, and hated to see him do those things to himself. The subtle changes in his day to day behaviour were enough to take Vincent’s heart and shatter it into a million tiny pieces. The fact that he could only watch from afar and console him, not do anything definitive. He wanted to. He really did. But he never could. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t ever talk him out of it, help him rid of it, or show enough emotion to make himself believable to Scott.

What was once a blessing to him, had now become an unspeakable curse. He could never cry. Not when he needed to. Not when it meant anything. He had a problem with raising his voice, too. Worried it made him sound too aggressive, and he didn’t want to scare Scott, so he always had this low, calm tone about him. The one problem with that was that it seemed as if he didn’t care.

But he did. He cared. He cared so _ so _ much. And it hurt him in so many ways that he couldn’t show that. Any way he tried, it would not work.

That’s why Scott’s recent actions took so much effect on him. 

Scott, having slammed the door in Vincent’s face, wasn’t having anything Vincent wanted to say. And, yes, that frustrated Vincent, but he was determined to be the bigger person. To stay calm. Oh, how terrifyingly easy it was.

How terrifyingly easy it was to walk across the landing, away from his boyfriend who was probably in a fit of crying at that moment, and close the door of his bedroom behind him. To get into the strangely empty bed, to close his eyes and forget about it all until the sunrise.

How  _comfortingly_ easy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ You're a flashlight in a dark room for the loneliest black-out _

_ You were all that we had left after it all was filtered out _

_ Turn you on in a dark room right before we both pass out _

_ Turn you on when I need you, but the batteries ran out _

_ They ran out _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All this fighting, especially with Scott’s condition, wore him down. The crying fits didn’t help, either.

See, Scott didn’t just cry. He’d act rather like a young child, actually. Sometimes, he’d shout. But most of the time he was just loud. And destructive. Something resembling a child’s tantrums.

He’d get so shaky, so uncontrollably  angry that he just had to take his anger out on something. He’d never mean to break it if he did, that was, if it was an object. 

If there was a lack of breakable objects around, he fully meant to break himself.

Usually harmless things- scratching, twirling longer parts of his hair, cracking his knuckles- suddenly became weapons of mass destruction. He’d wake up with red lines crawling up his legs, a pounding headache, and a prayer that none of his fingers broke. 

The scratching was a reason why Scott opted to keep his nails short- but, since he often bit them down to size when he felt nervous, they did just as much damage. The jagged edges could catch on anything, and sometimes they went down so short that they were sore for days.

The morning after the fight, when Scott woke up, it appeared that Vincent had already left for work. Either that, or he’d left full stop. Scott’s rationality said it was the first one, since this _ was _ Vincent’s house, but something in Scott kept pushing the second option. An uneasy morning.

He was relieved to see that, when he rounded the last corner and saw the large glass doors of Freddy’s, Vincent was standing by the stage, talking to Chris. He didn’t look angry, which Scott was thankful for, but he didn’t know Scott was there yet. 

Not wanting to fight again, and- frankly- exhausted from a small walk, Scott silently slipped behind the tables and into his office.

Vincent had noticed, though.

He’d see Scott’s red glasses from a mile away- they were hard to miss, because otherwise all he wore was black and white- and he saw them when Scott had walked through the doors. He payed no particular notice, however. He’d just tracked them with his eyes, watching Scott disappear into his office with a small stumble.

“-Hey. Dude, are you even listening to me?” Chris waved a hand in front of Vincent’s face, trying to get his attention back. Vincent shook his head slightly, eyes shut, and focused his gaze back to Chris.

“Sorry- yeah. What were you saying?” 

“I was asking you if you and Scott fought. You guys _ always _ turn up together, so why are you separate today?”

_Yes. Yes they had fought_.  But Vincent didn’t like involving people in his personal affairs.

“No, he just wanted to sleep in today. He stayed up late last night.” He calmly lied.

“Oh, he did, did he~?” Chris snickered as Zara butted her way into the conversation, passing with a crate in her arms. 

“Don’t you have a job to do, Zara? Quit coming into other peoples conversations.” Vincent almost growled at her.

“Damn, okay. Someone hasn’t had coffee.” 

Vincent sighed as she and Chris walked away, laughing with each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ You’re a werewolf  _

_ And I’m a full moon  _

_ And all your very worst enemies  _

_ Will be gone soon _

_ I think you’re changing _

_ Don’t worry you don’t gotta stay the same _

_ Can we talk about this later?  _

_ Your voice is driving me _

_ Driving me insane _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The voice was back.

Well, he couldn’t really call it a voice. It never spoke sentences. That was done by his own brain, betraying as usual. But, it took every sound around him and made them sound like whispers. Mocking, low, child-like whispers. It reminded him of high school, and he hated that.

Scott sat in his office. The ticking of the old clock that really should be replaced was his only defence against the words firing back and forth in his head. He tried to focus on the rhythmic tick, but it started to annoy him. The moment he lost focus, sentences were thrown at him, breaking down all of his walls and not missing one target.

_ He hates you. _

Now, Scott knew that one wasn’t true. He thought he could do better than that.

_He’s disgusted by you._

A little more believable, but still unrealistic.As much as he wished it  was  true, so maybe then he’d have reason to justify his actions, it wasn’t. Vincent would never be disgusted by him.

_You should kill yourself._

Well, yes, that was kind of the point. Like, some kind of fucked-up pep talk. To talk himself into it only so he could be talked out later. Living on the edge.

_ You can do way better than that. Come on, tell me what’s wrong with me. Tell me why I should hate myself. _

Baiting himself on like he was two people annoyed him, but it worked most times. And the best thing was, you could never tell it was happening if you didn’t know what to look for. If you weren’t accustomed to the signs, he looked like any other tired guy on a work morning.

_Let’s see, shall we? You’re skinny as fuck, I’m surprised you haven’t broken anything yet. You tried, but you’re weak everywhere so you couldn’t even do that properly. Pathetic. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never have smooth skin. Your hands will always be dry, your wrist will always have that scar, your face will never be as smooth as you want it to be, not to mention your arms and legs. You’re hopeless._

All true, in fairness. He let it continue.

_You know he only dates you out of pity, right? He doesn’t love you. Never has. If you died, he’d mourn you in public, but privately, he’d spit on your grave. I don’t think he’d even give you the chance of seeing him at your grave. He wouldn’t even visit. You’d be an unmarked cross in a field of cared about people. Oh, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Disgusting fucker. You revel in pain. You purposely seek out things that would cause you pain. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got off on it. Do you really hate yourself that much? I would, too, if I looked like that._

**_ Whore. _ **

That was enough. He mulled over the words, smiling a little to himself. He was really that pathetic. He resorted to calling himself insults that would otherwise be thrown around by 12 year olds. It worked, though. He was on the verge of tears.

22.

70.

77.

12.

7.

6.

Those were the chances he’d had of dying. All those times he’d tried. He’d calculated it all, after of course, and he’d looked up the most effective one just in case. He was too scared to try, obviously.

He didn’t want to die. He wanted to kill himself, but he didn’t want to die.

He wanted to kill himself so he could be void of emotion. Being in a coma hadn’t gone unconsidered, but the method was far too complicated and the risk of death far too high for him to want to attempt it. 

He wanted to be around. Be around so everyone around him didn’t feel as if he was gone. He would never have to say anything. But he would be there. And if they decided to kill him or something, the sentence probably wouldn’t be that long considering he would be unresponsive. Half dead already.

Scott was going to try again. He knew it wouldn’t work, but he could afford to not do anything for a few days. It could land him in an institution. That would be bad. He’d have to do everything. 

But maybe, just maybe, he’d die this time.

Vincent wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.

He wanted to try drowning again. It had been peaceful. Not at all as if he’d been trying to brutally maim himself moments earlier.

He could try cutting off an arm. Or, a hand at the very least. But it wouldn’t kill him. Just make others pity him more, and he hated that. 

Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe today he should let it slip. He didn’t  _have_ to do anything, and it would be much better for him if he didn’t. After all, all of this could be temporary. He could wake up tomorrow and find that everything was fine. 

All of this could also be solved by taking the stabilisers.

He hated them. They solved the mood swings, but they made him feel like he wasn’t quite there. Like a ghost, or similar. He felt stupid. They made him feel stupid. The be fair, they were the closest he’d gotten to no emotions, but if that was truly what it was like to feel nothing... he thought it was better to feel hatred towards himself. At least he considered himself a person.

He was tired. He’d been messing with his bandages the whole time, and some of them had come undone. He only ever became aware of these things when he managed to pull himself out of his own thoughts. A dangerous place. He didn’t like it.

He thought about doing them back up. He could just about see some of his sickly pale skin- or what was left of its original colour, anyway- peering out from between thick layers of gauze. 

But he was just so, so,  _so_ tired. His eyes were basically closing by themselves. He let sleep carry him wherever it wanted, laying his head down on his desk, among loose gauze and paperwork, and closed his eyes fully. 

One of the very few times he went to sleep when he actually needed to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
